


Thank You; 45 Minutes.

by flashofwildcreatures



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Marvel Cinematic Universe RPF, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Thor (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Costumes, Cunnilingus, David Grey, Erotica, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Flirting, Fluff and Smut, Hall H, Kissing, Love, Loving Marriage, Marriage, NerdHQ, One Shot, POV Female Character, POV Second Person, San Diego Comic-Con 2013, Surprises, Teasing, role-playing, theatre nerds
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-10
Updated: 2018-11-10
Packaged: 2019-10-18 04:35:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,844
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17573984
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flashofwildcreatures/pseuds/flashofwildcreatures
Summary: There’s nothing quite so satisfying as tricking the Trickster himself. Female original character helps her husband, Tom Hiddleston, get into character before his legendary 2013 Comic Con surprise appearance as Loki.





	Thank You; 45 Minutes.

**Author's Note:**

> AUTHORS NOTES: This was such fun to write. Enjoy!  
> (P.S. “Niamh” is pronounced “nee-ev.”)

 

 

_Friday 19 July 2013  
London_

You’re sat at work when your phone buzzes in your desk drawer. It’s just after lunch on a Friday and you’re knackered, aching to go home and pass out on the couch in front of a movie with a book on your chest.

You check your phone; it’s a selfie of Jango Fett walking through the San Diego airport. It’s the weekend of the San Diego Comic Con, so no one bats an eye at the sight of a tall man wearing a Star Wars helmet on his way to baggage claim. If they only knew...

“Niamh, got those reports ready?” your boss chirps from over the cube wall. You slide your drawer closed.

“Almost.”

“Before 3, then?” she says.

“Will do.”

You try to hide a yawn as you turn back to your computer, with Jango still on your mind.

God, it’s been ages since he was able to walk through an airport with so little attention. Your chest twinges with envy. He’d asked if you wanted to come but you’d said no, shuddering at the idea of all those fans crowded into the convention center. For someone who lived in London, you weren’t a fan of hordes of people. And work had been intense, and your weekends had been busy for months--you needed a proper break, with or without Tom there.

But that photo... you knew he was grinning beneath the plastic helmet that he’d snagged at Escapade last week, after Kevin had called and pitched him the idea.

“I thought you were getting a Stormtrooper,” you’d said when he walked into the apartment that afternoon.

“They were all out,” he shrugged, setting it on the counter before walking to you. “This was the only one that fit.” You leaned your head back over the arm of the couch to meet his upside down kiss; his fingers brushed your arched neck as your lips met. After years together, his touch still made your pulse leap to meet it. London was in the middle of a heatwave, but your sudden temperature rise came from another kind of sun.

Another message from Tom comes through and you open your drawer to read it.

> _“ehehe just got this from Zachary - says he’ll personally punch me in the dick if I don’t swing by Nerd HQ. Guess I’ve got another appearance to make.”_

God, the fans are going to eat him alive, you think. And he’s going to love every bit of it.

The phone on your desk rings, startling you. You answer, managing to conduct business as usual, but your guts simmer with regret. Had the prospect of solitude been so much more appealing than watching your husband spring such a surprise? Why had you turned down his invite? You’d gone with him to SDCC in 2010, and it had been a good time but nothing beyond that. You suppose that‘s what you were thinking when you reflexively said no. But so much had changed since then; now, there was scarcely a place you two could go without someone calling out, “Loki!”

He was going to have so much fun, and you were going to miss it.

You loved it when he was working on Loki. It had started as far back as the first film. Tom was his same self at home, of course, he was no method actor. But his slender body shifted with an extra shimmer somehow, a dark flicker that lit something inside of you in response. His other roles hadn’t had the same effect on him, not even the Shakespearean ones.

You thought back to your religious studies courses at uni when you read the Poetic Edda. Would Tom be insulted, you wondered, if he knew your secret theory that the spirit of Loki actually fueled his performance? He was a tremendous actor, to be sure, but you saw something come alive in him that was otherworldly when he was playing in and out of Loki’s inner world.

Your eyes lose focus at your desk as you finish the last round of edits on the reports.

At 4, your phone buzzes again. Another selfie, this one in a hotel room.

> _“Checked in and on lockdown until Saturday at 3. Wish you were here. xx”_

He’s going to go stir crazy, you think, stuck alone in a tiny hotel room for 24 hours, made even worse by his nerves about the appearance. Your little social seahorse. He’ll be texting you at all hours, keeping you from the sleep you’d planned on getting.

Suddenly, you wish you were there, too.

As the printer collates, you remember the holiday you took last autumn so you could visit Tom on set in Iceland. Neither of you had ever been, and its ethereal beauty had stunned you.

You’d sat in his trailer with him as the make-up artists, then costumers finished getting him dressed for the scene.

“You call this work, Mr. Hiddleston?” you’d teased as he closed his eyes to have one more layer of pale powder applied to his face.

“Green isn’t your color, Niamh,” he’d grinned.

It had taken longer than you’d imagined for the team to apply the wig and make-up, then the costumers had brought all the pieces of his wardrobe to help him into.

He winked at you as you watched him slip the coat onto his broad shoulders. You sat with legs crossed, heat building in your spine. So much leather, metal, and that emerald fabric... He’d been handsome in his suit at your wedding, but this was another level, like enjoying a familiar stranger.

“Do I look ridiculous?” he’d asked.

“You look regal,” you’d laughed, then said to the costumers, “It’s truly magnificent what you do on these movies.” They secured the metal bracers onto his forearms, then left.

You leaned back in your chair, your pulse quick, your eyes roving, hot, over his long, lean body. Tom turned from the mirror to see your expression.

“I can’t say that I’ve ever seen you leer before,” he’d said, stepping closer, amused. His footfall in boots on the trailer floor vibrated up your thighs.

“There’s a first time for everything.” You held your gaze, your desire naked on your face. The switch flipped inside of him, and he was suddenly not wholly himself.

Your husband-turned-god leaned over you and gripped the arms of your chair, menacingly. His glowering eyes locked on yours.

His voice bottomed into gravel as he growled, “So you think you can withstand the god of mischief, do you?” Your chin lifted. You slid an index finger along the green fabric on his chest, then slipped it under the firm leather breastplate.

“Lock that door and I’ll show you.”

A low laugh rumbled in his chest, the Loki version of your husband’s chuckle. He leaned close, the smell of leather rustling against you. He passed your lips and bent toward your neck; your lids lowered as his teeth nipped at your skin. You turned your head to his; even through the wig and spirit gum scent, you could smell his warm scalp, and it made your mouth water.

“Mark my words, Midgardian: one day I will.”

The printer finishes and someone clears their throat behind you.

“You all right, Niamh?” your coworker asks. “You look a bit peaked.” A few of the reports slip from your hands and you bend down to retrieve them.

“I’m--I’m okay. I think.”

“If you’ve got that summer cold going around, you’d better go home. You know how Prisha hates when we work through illness.” Her face comes into sudden focus as you stand.

“You’re absolutely right.”

A crew member had knocked on the door just as Tom had moved close to kiss you.

“Ten minutes, Tom.”

“Thank you, ten minutes.” Ever the professional theatre actor, your husband, even as his lips were brushing, wet, against yours. He stood quickly, leaving you without a real kiss.

He’d stalked to the trailer door, only glancing back at you with a smirk that was both in and out of character before he left for set.

He never had fulfilled that promise.

Reports in hand, you lean on Prisha’s doorframe. “Here you are.” Then you cough into your sleeve.

“Allergies, then?” she asks. You shake your head and wipe your forehead.

“No, I don’t think that’s it.” You add a sniffle for good measure.

She leans back in her seat and reaches for her hand sanitizer.

“Listen, why don’t you skive off? It’s Friday, this is the last I need from you today. Sleep it off.”

“Ah, thanks, Prisha. I could use the rest.”

\----

Tom texts as you’re throwing lingerie into a carry-on at home.

> _“Last of the Mohicans is on the telly but I’d rather be outside. Only 22 degrees! Any break in the heat there?”_

You text him in the back of a cab on the way to the airport, the city’s lights flashing outside the window.

> _“None. Sweltering. Feeling grotty on top of it, too. Hope it’s not a cold.”_

He replies right away.

> _“Ah shite love, sorry you’re unwell with me away. Order some soup and tuck in early tonight. Call me when you get home?”_

You smirk.

> _“will do xo”_

David Grey's “Babylon” plays on the radio, and the guitar riff takes you back to university. You close your eyes and smile.

_If you want it_  
_Come and get it_  
_For crying out loud_

Two hours later, you lean back in your first class seat on the flight to San Diego, remembering the days when you two only dreamed about luxuries like this. You feel lucky that you don’t have to don a Star Wars costume just to fly in anonymity. Even though you and Tom have been photographed together for years, most fans don’t recognize you without him by your side.

Just before takeoff, you text Tom:

> _“Crashing out in bed. Love you talk tomorrow xo”_

Your stomach flips as you imagine his expression when he sees you there. Like a short-haired golden retriever, that man, you think with a smile. His heart on his sleeve. No wonder the Americans love him so much.

The weather sounds like it’ll cooperate with your plans. No one will bat an eye at your belted short trench in San Diego. You almost roll your eyes at yourself--scantily clad beneath an overcoat? So basic, but straight men are so easily pleased, you think, amused, as you close your eyes to rest up for the adventure.

Plus, you think as you drift off to sleep, you have a little something extra in mind to complicate things.

\---

_Saturday 20 July 2013  
San Diego_

When the plane lands in the San Diego morning and you turn your phone back on, only one Tom text pops up:

> _“Rest well love you too”_

Bless him; he must be sitting on his hands to keep from texting you so you can “rest at home.” If you were well, he’d want to video chat with you the entire time so he wouldn’t get lonely.

You grab a hotel room near the airport for a few hours to nap, shower, and change. It’s 13:30 by the time you step into the crowd thronging toward the convention center entrances. As you promised Luke, you’ve donned a disguise of your own—a rainbow wig and sunglasses—to make sure no one spots you in the crowd and compromises the surprise appearance.

You start to get nervous as you wait for Luke to fetch you. What if the timing’s gone sideways? What if the green room is full of Marvel folks who want to chat?

But an emerald slither through your pelvis tells you that it’s all going to go to plan.

Finally, Luke finds you. The two of you walk through the wide backstage hallway, which is fluorescent-lit and lined with food carts, stacks of chairs, folded tables. You pull off your disguise.

“He’ll be so happy to see you. His nerves are through the roof,” he says, checking his phone for any updates on the panel that starts in 40 minutes.

As you walk, you text Tom:

> _“Babe, I’m having the worst time sleeping. Call me?”_

Luke knocks on the waiting room door, but no one answers. Your phone buzzes with Tom’s reply:

> _“Aw love, I’m so sorry. Getting costumed now, call you in a bit.”_

“Hullo?” Luke says as he cracks the door open. “Hm, he must be finishing up. He’ll be here shortly.”

“Thanks ever so for keeping the secret.”

“Seems to be the theme of the weekend, eh?” he grins as he closes the door behind him. You inhale, exhale, then look around the small room. You start to sit in one of the chairs set around a round table, but change your mind. You look at the door and smirk.

Luke ushers Tom in a few minutes later.

“They’re running a bit behind, but it shouldn’t be more than 45 minutes,” Luke says before he leaves, closing the door behind him. You reach out and flip the lock silently as Tom walks toward the table.

It’s been almost a year since you saw him like this; as ever, your core instantly turns to liquid in his presence. Wendy really knew what she was doing with this costume.

Tom unlocks his phone and dials your number. Your phone rings in your hand as you stand behind him. He looks down at his, confused.

“Hello, gorgeous,” you say simply, leaning against the wall by the door. Startled, he drops his phone as he whips around.

“Niamh!” He scoops you into his arms and squeezes you tight. “You’re here!”

Jesus, sometimes you forget how tall he is.

“When did you--?”

“Surprise!” you say into his chest. Your belly relaxes and you soften against his body. It’s strange to experience Loki being so gentle and sweet.

He pulls back and cups your face. His grin is the midday sun.

“Feeling grotty? The worst time sleeping, eh?” His laugh lines crinkle with that enormous smile, which is always his, even through the pale make-up.

“Absolute worst,” you laugh, wrapping your arms behind his neck.

“Careful, babe, the wig is temperamental,” he says, repositioning your arms beneath the long black locks so you don’t pull it loose.

“A pity,” you say. “Hair like that begs to be tugged.” You lift onto your tiptoes and press your teeth into his lower lip. He whispers a moan.

“Niamh, it’s 45 minutes to curtain.” But his hands reach under your overcoat. When he discovers your bare thighs, his smile tilts from joy to desire and you feel his cock move even through the leather trousers and waistcoat flap.

“Darling.” His voice is lower. “You’ve forgotten to pack something.”

“Have I?” you say, carefully fingering the metal teeth along his overcoat’s collar. “I came for a specific purpose, and I’ve got everything I need for that. You see, my dear. A mutual...hm...acquaintance once promised me something that he has yet to deliver." Your pulse races as your fingers unfasten the top button of your coat.

Tom cocks his head, a move that usually makes him look just like a golden retriever pup, with his short blonde curls, but as Loki, he looks… elemental.

You undo another button, revealing the hint of the curve of your breasts.

“What...” he begins. You remember the uncanny sensation of watching him speak as Tom while in this costume and make-up; his expressions and voice are at once his and also inverted, somehow.

Your forefinger presses against your lips, quieting him. His eyes flick to your other hand, which pauses at the center coat button.

“I’m beginning to think he deserves his reputation as the god of lies.” The phrase explodes in the air. Your breath sticks in your throat; there’s no going back now.

“Niamh…” Your name, a question, almost a warning, but his blue eyes spark electric when they meet yours. He remembers. Your face is calm but your heart pounds.

“I intend for him to make good on his promise. If he does, I will give him what he needs.”

Another button undone; this one uncovers the lace of your bra, his favorite. He swallows hard.

“Who is it you’re here for? Tom, or Loki?” For a fleeting moment, Tom’s face almost betrays hurt.

“I want both,” you growl, and slide a leg under Loki’s overcoat and around his thighs, pulling his cock close to your cunt. He looks at the door and sees that it’s locked.

“May I…” His voice crinkles and he presses his lips together.

“Yes?” You undo another button and your breasts press against the criss-crossed leather bands on his chest. He looks down at you, now, with naked lust.

“May I kiss my wife before our…acquaintance arrives?” You reach up to grasp his earlobes and tug them gently, your everyday gesture of affection with your husband. He leans into you, slowly, carefully, like a bridegroom on his wedding night.

Tom threads his fingers through your hair and rests his hand at your nape before he leans down. “Niamh…” he murmurs against your lips.

“Tom.” Your reply disappears as you lift your lips into his and your every nerve ending lights up.

You’d teased Tom once about his lips, when you were dating. Before your first kiss, you’d been quietly concerned that they were just so… thin. Not much there there.

But then, that kiss sent you sky high, and immediately after, before you could stop yourself, you’d said, “And though they be but little, they are fierce.” His eyes had opened with surprise. “Are you talking about my lips?” You’d flushed beet red and squeaked, “Yes,” horrified that your thoughts had escaped your mouth. His shock turned quickly into his endearing cackle. “Thus from my lips, by yours, my sin is purged,” he’d said before kissing you again, thus saving you from admitting you’d forgotten the rest of the Romeo and Juliet scene.

Luckily, he wasn’t sensitive about that particular feature of his.

You suck his lower lip into your mouth and he moans. Tom’s hand travels from your nape to your collarbone to the rise of your breasts, the warmth of your heart. His lips open in a groan against your kiss and you take that moment to slip your tongue to touch his.

Then he tears your coat off your shoulders and pins your arms behind your back with it.

“Midgardian,” he growls, his words chilled suddenly. “Look how far you’ve fallen... flying halfway across this realm to throw yourself at the feet of a god.” You can’t stop the grin that spreads across your face.

“There you are,” you say, your voice lowering to meet his.

“You humans are all the same: mere beasts whose lives mean nothing.” He bends his head to your breasts and runs his lips and teeth along their curves.

“I’m no ordinary human,” you gasp, arching your back to press your breasts into his kisses.

“Is that so?” he snarls, his nails scraping against your soft skin as he tugs your bra aside. He cups your breast with splayed fingers, nestling your nipple between his thumb and forefinger.

“Why don’t you find out for yourself?”

He presses his thigh upward between your legs, then pauses.

“You’d better not ruin my clothing with your mess, petal.”

“Ruin leather?” you scoff. Your hand slides down his abdomen and grips his cock. His groan is almost a snarl.

Both of you know that there’s no easy way to free him without mussing the elaborate costume.

So you say, “I would kill to wrap my lips around your cock right now,” then slip to your knees. A frustrated growl rumbles in his throat as you press your cheek and palms against the warm leather covering his sex.

“Your Tom tells me that you’re very good at that,” he purrs. Your stomach flips.

“Oh does he?” He pulls your face closer and you suck in a deep breath of leather and flesh and sweat.

“Yes. He tells me plenty about the things you do to serve him in your bedchamber.”

“I doubt he used those words, but yes,” you say, meeting his gaze, “I do love it when he bathes my lips in his cum.” His eyes roll closed, almost angry with your words.

“Well, you’d better get in line; there’s no shortage of mortals ready to claim loyalty to me.” He laces his long fingers beneath your ears and clutches the back of your head.

Envy singes your sternum. You know he’s right. Your husband is ever-modest about his adoring fans, but Loki… Loki would use them against you in a heartbeat.

It takes immense restraint for you not to flatten your tongue against his length and wreck those trousers to teach him a lesson.

Instead, you squeeze his thighs, hard. “And yet, I have an advantage over all of them.”

“And what’s that?”

“Your Midgardian messenger belongs to me.” You grip his wrists and pull yourself up. A smile strains the edges of his mouth.

“So he does.” He brushes your lower lip with his thumb and you shiver, then bite it. He pushes his thumb into your mouth and you suck, smirking as his eyes cloud over with desire.

“You’re lucky I’m in full regalia, little mortal. If I weren’t…”

You nudge his thumb out of your mouth. “Don’t make a promise you can’t keep.” His hand slips to your throat, firmly but attentively.

“Petal, broken promises are my forte.”

Your hands carefully sneak under his hair to his bare neck—so little skin left uncovered in this costume!—and pull his lips down to yours. His kiss is hungry; his hot hands slink under your coat and grip your lower back.

God, this is fun.

“Please tell me you brought something other than this to cover yourself,” he mutters into your kiss.

“Since when are you concerned with rules?”

“Only when they suit me.”

You curl your leg around his thighs again. The leather is warm against your bare skin.

“Loki.” Your heart skips a beat.

“What?” he murmurs, tracing kisses to the soft spot beneath your ear.

You nibble his earlobe, then hiss, “Put that silvertongue to good use.”

He pauses. He knows he can’t disturb his makeup or clothes, but you’re not going on stage in—he glances at the clock above the locked door—30 minutes.

A roguish smile spreads across his face, and he sinks in front of you, the leather of his boots rasping as he moves.

Holy shit.

He wastes no time, pulling your knickers to your calves and skimming his palm over your curling hair.

“So this is the woman who won the heart of my Midgardian...representative.”

He nestles his nose against your vulva and breathes in.

“And don’t forget it,” you murmur. His long fingers stroke your lips, then he kisses them tenderly. Your breath uncoils and you lean your head back against the wall in an exhale. Even in a gigantic convention center full of a hundred thousand strangers, his lips on your core take you home.

He traces his tongue along the soft inside of your lips, sending a quiver to your toes. He doesn’t pull off your coat—you know that Tom is nervous to fully expose you, even with the door locked.

It’s hard to stay silent as he pulls one lip into his mouth, then both. He nibbles his way up to your hood, then teases it with his tongue and fingers until it draws upward, exposing your clit. You breathe harder.

You look down at him, your husband shrouded in that black wig, black leather, and green fabric, in another persona, worshipping your sex, and your head swims.

As if he can feel your eyes feasting on him, he slips his thumb inside of you. Your knees buckle and he catches you. His eyes ask a question; you answer by pointing to the couch in the corner.

You step out of your knickers as you stride across the room; he follows close behind. You lie back, spreading your legs without breaking eye contact. Your fingers slide down your belly; one sneaks between your lips, then lifts up to your tongue.

“Lucky god,” you say. No modesty flap could hide the twitch of his erection as he watches you suck your honey from your fingers.

His glowering look and side-tipped head is all Loki’s as he towers over you, his eyes sparking like ice. Your heartbeat speeds up with anticipation.

He nuzzles his leather-clad knee tight against your pussy and leans close, long black hair tickling your face. He lifts one finger to your lips to quiet you, then lowers himself. His lips trace along your left inner thigh toward your center, nipping and suckling your soft skin. A deep ache throbs inside as he approaches your cunt.

Your breasts rise and fall with quick breath as he mixes up tight circles around your clit with long strokes with his tongue, bringing your arousal up to coat your hard pearl.

His care of your clit is effective yet restrained—even as Loki comes out to play, your actor husband knows that the stakes are high if he musses his makeup or costume.

It’s incongruous, this wounded prince, gilded for battle in leather and metal, caressing your cunt so carefully.

Then you realize that it makes fine sense. A strange fondness for this archetype, this myth that your husband embodies so powerfully steals over you. Softly, you tuck several loose strands of the black hair behind his ear and smile.

He casts his glance up for a moment and basks in your tender approval. Both actor and character open like morning glories to the sunshine of adoration.

Then his teeth rake across your clit—almost imperceptibly—and you jump with a whimper of pleasure. He chuckles and continues lapping at your wetness.

“You know, sometimes, when your husband is far away from you, I watch him stroke himself while he thinks about you.”

“Jesus, Tom,” you groan, his words sending pinpricks down your lower back.

“Close, but neither, petal.” His voice vibrates through your center and you wonder if you’re going to pass out.

“Loki. You know my name. Say it.” Your words surprise both of you. You feel him grin.

“Niamh.” He moans your name into your satin folds.

“Again.”

“Niamh.” Between his words, he circles your clit with his tongue, over and over. You know he can taste the approaching tide, crashing higher and higher, but he keeps it at bay a little longer.

“Yes, I enjoy watching him tug at his cock until his hunger for you is satiated. But I’ve also watched you.” He slides one thumb inside your entrance. “Your nights apart are long, and I’ve seen you spread these thighs for your own wandering hands while you think of his tongue… right…here…”

Your head spins with arousal and your cheeks burn.

“Oh god—Loki—Tom—“

He slips his other thumb into your sex, then spreads them outward, just barely. The opening sensation combines with his spiraling tongue and you spill over into a cascading orgasm, your walls squeezing his fingers in long, pulsing waves.

The edges of your body blur as you come as silently as you can, your nerve endings roaring and crashing like the surf inside.

As you begin to wind down, his fingers slow but don’t stop gently rocking in and out, his eyes adoring your shuddering body.

When you relax, complete, he slips his fingers out, and presses one last kiss to your wet center.

“Fucking hell,” you purr.

As he helps you sit up, he whispers, “That is, by far, the most fun I’ve ever had getting into character.”

“I should hope so!” Your breath eases as your vision comes back into focus. His flushed cheeks peek through the pale make-up and his blue eyes flash with unrequited lust and pre-performance nerves.

Face to face with the God of Mischief after your orgasm, heat prickles across your chest and cheeks and it feels like you might cry, or laugh. He cups your face, his half-lidded gaze steady, and gives a soft tug on your earlobes.

“I love you,” he whispers. You nod, blushing.

“They’ll be here to fetch me soon.” He steadies you as you stand, your legs like jelly, and step into the dress you packed in your bag. You turn your back to him and he zips you up and fastens the hook and eye at the top. Then he leans down to kiss the side of your neck, inhaling the scent of your skin.

You turn and wrap your arms around your husband, the god, for one last stolen moment before he plays the biggest gig of his life so far.

“Maybe I’ll see you again,” Loki says.

You walk to the door, coat in hand, and wink back at him.

“Next time? Bring the horns.”


End file.
